As golden dawn-light spills forth over roof and eve, spilling long upon the verdure that is the courtyard of the Prince's palace, a landscape of contrasts is revealed. Bustling and hurried are the pages and stableboys, yet leisurely is the pace of strolling noble courtiers. Rigid and stern are the guards, yet soft and gentle the silk-swathed women amongst the whispering trees.
And so is it that in this scene sunlight falls upon the ebon tresses of such a lady, held close to the flaxen blond mane of her brilliant steed. Blue and green is her garb, and silver, too - a lady of the Telpekhiri, doubtless, and she readies herself for a morning hunt, by the looks of it.
Not the soft slap of slippers but the ringing footfalls of riding boots heralds the hurried approach of Laeraelin this morning. She comes along the paved path upon long strides, her cloak and riding habit fluttering behind her.
The younger Telpekhiri trots the few last feet between her and her waiting cousin. "Oh cousin! I apologize for my tardiness. It was hard to rise this morn. Have I kept you long?"
A long look is shared between the keen grey eyes of the Lady Ninvainiel and the deep brown-black of her golden mount, broken by the sudden laughter of the former.
"Nay, Laeraelin, you've not kept us long. Culurien has only just been saddled, and it is pleasant enough to wait here. But hurry, tack up lest there be no game left this morn. The sun won't wait for you as I have," she says as she lays a fond hand upon her mare's arched neck.
A soft clip clop comes from the stable doors where a young page leads forth a speckled grey mare, gentle of eye and step. The young boy leads the mare in an arc bringing her to a stop before the ladies of Telpekhor. She swishes her tail and turns her head to lay yellow-brown eyes upon Laeraelin and nickers a soft greeting.
"It seems I have been anticipated. We will not keep Arien waiting." The young Telpekhor rests her left foot in a stirrup and pushes her self up to sit upon her side saddle, hooking her right securely. Her dress drapes along the flank of the mare, a brillant green against the light grey."Let us hope the hosts of Gondor have left game in their hungry wake."
A slight frown crosses the elder Lady's countenance at her cousin's mention of the hosts, but before any reply is forthcoming she, too, has lept easily into the waiting saddle of her mare, who shifts restlessly beneath her. Unconsciously, Ninvainiel reaches a hand behind her back to feel the smooth, gleaming wood of her bow.
With her other hand, she reaches forth to grasp her supple reins, and taking them up she wheels her steed about in a display - ostentatious as it may be - of swirling platinum hair and soft-hued fabric. Amidst the squeaking leather and jingling tack, she smiles.
"And let us prey, too, for their safe return. Come then, are you ready?" Ninvainiel asks as she sets forth.
The Lady Laeraelin strokes the neck of her mare, leaning down to whisper something in her ear. She straightnes and pats the grey twice ere urging her to come up beside her cousin upon the golden. "I pray daily, Ninvainiel, for...their safe return."
"I am ready cousin, lead on." Laeraelin replies and urges her horse to follow behind.
You head into the gatehouse.
Dol Amroth: Prince's Castle - Gatehouse
Brusquely functional, this gatehouse is a small courtyard surrounded by high walls. Double-doors lie to the east and west through small shadowed archways, while lining the walls high on all sides are an assortment of arrow slits and murder holes for dealing with an enemy that enters. The stone of the walls is of the same ubiquitous, shining white...but there seem to be discomfiting stains on some of the cobbles of the roadway.
The closeness of the day-lit white-stone walls is nearly blinding here--and, dotted as they are with numerous apertures ready to pour down death, the overall effect is not unlike a fleshless skull. Still, the volume of traffic that pours through this small courtyard separating the inner and outer gates gives the place a less ghastly feel--for the merchants, soldiers, diplomats, or simply townsfolk passing to and fro give the place barely a glance.
Obvious exits:
Inner Gates and Outer Gates
e
You leave the castle.
Dol Amroth: Men Ernil - Court of the Fountain
A massive elliptical fountain dominates this court--and gives it its name--fully twenty feet on its long axis, perhaps half as wide. Made of smooth white stone, it consists of two broad levels which can--and often do--act as benches for the denizens of the Citadel. In the center of the fountain stands a large statue, water burbling 'round his feet in a comely display. The court itself is roughly square, its perimeter delineated by short walls of white stone in all directions but west, where tall ramparts mark the beginning of Dol Amroth's true defenses.
Sunlight gleams almost painfully from all around you, shining as it does from the polished walls and the magnificent fountain. Spray from the burbling fonts surrounding the fountain's central statue casts myriad rainbows about, and the court is filled with a gentle buzz of folk moving to and fro on business, speaking quietly, or simply enjoying a stroll. Pennons flutter in the breeze on the ramparts above and to the west, where the Prince's white Citadel rests like a snowy cap on the Hill of Amroth.
Obvious exits:
Gatehouse and Men Ernil
.
e
You head east.
Dol Amroth: Men Ernil
The Men Ernil--"Prince's Way"--is a cobblestone pathway some fifteen paces wide, surrounded on the sides by walls roughly twice a man's height. It leads from the Marble Gate at the city's eastern edge to the outer bailey of Imrahil's Marble Citadel by the sea. There are occasional breaks in the wall--some from age, some intentional; one of these opens onto a broader road that leads northwards towards the town of Dol Amroth and the quays that line the Bay of Edhellond to the north.
The sunshine falls here on muted grey flagstones, worn and withered by age; far from the splendour of either the Marble Gate or the Citadel of the Prince, this road seems only under nominal upkeep and repair. Often you see mounted Lords, Requain of the Prince wearing tabards of royal blue emblazoned boldly with the White Swan of the city, mail glimmering in the sunshine.
Obvious exits:
Court , City , and Gate
Laeraelin arrives on the Men Ernil from the archway set in the low wall to the west.
Laeraelin has arrived.
e
You walk through the Marble Gates.
Dol Amroth: Marble Gate
You stand on a narrow bottleneck of land no more than two thousand paces wide, shooting westwards to connect to the rocky promontory on which the Castle of the Prince and the city of Dol Amroth stands. To the north and south are the waters of the sea--even from hear you can smell their salt tang and hear the cries of sea-birds.
To your west, a massive wall of flagstone stretches its way across the entire bottleneck of land, effectively sealing in the city from any attack on foot. The only way in is through the huge marble archway that lies directly west along the tree-lined path on which you stand, the famed Marble Gate of Dol Amroth. A company of guardsmen stand at attention on either side of the huge archway standing next to two large statues guarding the gate. The men-at-arms are dwarfed by the gate's bulk and they wear the blue and white of the Prince's servants. Sunlight glints off of their mail, their spears, and from the domes of the high conical helms graced with seabird wings that adorn their heads. Traffic is fairly heavy--wagons of farm goods passing in from the lands of Dor-en-Ernil, peasants and traders on foot, and a goodly number of mounted Lords in battle array or finery--the Knights of Dol Amroth about their business.
Obvious exits:
Southwest leads to Dol Amroth: The Yards.
East leads to Belfalas: East of Dol Amroth.
West leads to Dol Amroth: Men Ernil.
Laeraelin arrives through the Marble Gates.
Laeraelin has arrived.
You move out into the countryside.
Belfalas: East of Dol Amroth
The open fields here are not so heavily covered with grass as those to the south or north. Rather, the hills contain sparse growths here and there. It is a fine coat of foliage, none the less, but the ground has the look of a much trafficked area, as if a great many feet have beaten down plants to the point where they are fearful to return. The rolling hills slope down to the west, towards the sea... and Dol Amroth.
The city itself is on a promitory out in the ocean, with a small strip of land leading to it. The penninsula itself is high above the sea, and the city gleams like a pearl against the backdrop of the blue ocean. Higher than the rest of the city, the Citadel sits upon a hill, the "Mound of Amroth." It looks down over the docks and dwellings with a beneficent eye, and its presence is reassuring.
The faint road leads towards Dol Amroth, to the west and it also curves back around, through the hills to the northeast. North from here, more fields lie and the mouth of the Morthond is in the distance. The south holds yet more fertile grassland, yet of a lighter color. The moutain peaks, to the southeast and east, look to come to an abrupt end farther to the south, their magnificence ending.
Obvious exits:
West leads to Dol Amroth: Marble Gate.
Northeast leads to Belfalas: Edhellond - Near the Ringlo.
South leads to Belfalas: Dor-en-Ernil - Grasslands, near the Bay.
North leads to Belfalas: Edhellond - near the Mouth of Morthond.
Laeraelin comes in from the direction of the fabled city of Dol Amroth.
Laeraelin has arrived.
+os here? I don't care
Followed only by the sound of hoof upon turf, Ninvainiel and Culurien break into an easy canter as they leave the gates of the city, setting out upon the rolling grasslands surrounding.
As the gleaming white of the city shrinks to a small ivory speck to the west and the sea to but a thin strip of azure upon the margin of emerald fields, the lady leans back and urges her mount to stop, casting her gaze rearward over her flank, searching for her cousin.
Red faced from the wind and exertian, a laughing Laeraelin, reins up beside Ninvainiel, her mare dancing restlessly. "It is a glorious morning, cousin!" she exalts.
Turning in her saddle she gazes back towards the distant city upon the sea, far but easily seen on the clear day, shineing brillant and white in the easterly light of the new day. "But we are far from the sea and will not be able to see should any ships come from the south bearing news."
The great falcon upon her arm ruffles his feathers drawing the young Telpekhor's attention. She strokes his feathered neck just below his hood to sooth him.
Grave of face and with a rigidness carried upon her shoulders, Ninvainiel bends her gaze upon the ribbon of sea westwards. "News will reach us soon enough if it comes," she declares softly as he mare reaches down to rip a mouthful from the emeral sward.
She shakes her head and forces a smile. "What will happen will happen whether we worry or not, and I've great faith in Dorionn's ability to avoid trouble, if nothing else. Have a morsel to eat," she offers, as she draws a bit of bread from her saddlebag, "and let us see if we can't find a brace of rabbits or grouse fattened up with summer greenery!"
A quick, suprised turn of Laeraelin's raven tressed head brings her grey eyed gaze upon the figure of her cousin. "You have word of Dorionn? He has gone with the hosts?" She reaches out a slender hand to absently recieve the offered bread, leaning foward a bit to do so and shifting her balance to compensate for the heavy burden of the falcon. "I thought it had been overlong since we received word from his father that he would soon come to Dol Amroth. What have you learned?"
"So eager for news, yet you didn't see in the latest dispatch that he is there? Squired to the Knight Drenlyn, it seems," Ninvainiel remarks, her eyes downcast as she gazes idly upon the shadow her figure traces upon the turf.
"I know him not," she continues, a frown creasing a brow that has grown tanned from a summer spent in the sun. "Save that he is a man of common birth, and was squired to the Knight-Herald."
She shrugs, and turns her face upwards again. "Dorionn will make a fine squire in time, regardless of his knight, I suppose."
Shifting uncomfortably in her saddle, Laeraelin blushes and looks away from her cousin. With her free hand, the young lady brushes away windblown hair from her eyes. "I know Sir Drenlyn. He is kind and honourable. Dorionn may do well with him."
A gentle sigh escapes the elder Telpekhor's lips to mingle with the soft soughing breeze that carries even here the salt-tang of the ocean. "So he may be," she agrees, "but I still would wish for one of nobler birth, for noble is the blood that courses Dorionn's veins, weak as he may yet be. If it is not to be so, then it is not to be so. Little sway with the knights have I"
Ninvainiel falls silent, and warm light dances across features that seem grown care-worn before their time. A quick smile dispels such illusions, however, and she gestures towards the falcon upon her cousin's arm. "Will you keep him in a hood all morn?" she inquires.
"Of course not, Ninvainiel." Laeraelin murmers. The younger lady deftly removes the falcons hood and lifts her arm to encourage the raptors flight. Urging him to take flight in a mighty sweep of his wings and so soar high above, his keen eyes searching the grasslands for some hare.
Laeraelin's arm staggers under the weight of the birds launch but she grimaces not nor makes a sound but replies to her cousin,"Does not his knighthood enoble him enough? I fail to see any want in Sir Drenlyn. Our peers have deemed him honourable enough to raise his station." A subtle edge sharpens her voice but her grey eyes track the falcons lazy circles rather than fall upon her cousin. Leaving her with a stiff profile.
Hooking reins over the saddle horn and eaching back to draw forth her bow with a single, effortless movement, Ninvainiel settles deeper in her seat, her piercing gaze trailing the small speck that lofts gently against the clear autumn sky.
"Thorondur Girithlin has deemed him worthy, if I make no mistake, and he is the very same who names Hirluin a traitor," she says with no small amount of doubt. "But tell me, how is it that you are so familiar with Sir Drenlyn," she asks, eyes still upwards. A sharp keening slices the air as the falcon espies some prey upon the ground, and begins a steep descent.
A slow blush reddens the fair face of the younger Telpekhor and she glances towards the ground. "I had not known he was squired to Girithlin." And then, almost ernestly she looks up again to her cousin, "But others were upon that quest: Lords Indilzar and Arnafel. And they did not protest such an elevation. Surely they too must agree with the Knight-Heralds good opinion?"
The piercing cry of the falcon draws her attention and Laeraelin follows the raptors plummet, noting where it finds its prey. Her eyes not straying from the kill, she answers, "I have met him a few times about the courtyard and gardens of the citadel. Most recently upon the eve of his departure."
"I did not and do not doubt that he is a right and honourable knight, and do not question the Lord Girithlin's judgement -- in -this- case," responds Ninvainiel, a curious wrinkle to her forehead as he attention is drawn away from the falcon by the red-faced assertions of her cousin. If suspicions are piqued, they remain unvoiced.
"As I said, I would wish only that he were squired to one of blood less common, and have no doubt that Rilluin and Hirluin would wish the same. But what is done is done, and will not be changed ere the hosts return from Poros. Shall we," she asks, gesturing towards the raptor with a pointed chin, "Lest he take his catch for himself?"
"Of course, cousin," Laeraelin demurs, "I only meant to press that his honour and kindness, both traits of the gentle born, should suffice for...our cousins squirehood."
A firm tug of the reins and the young Telpehkor urges her horse forward into a slow trot, "Let us find the falcons prey, indeed."
She holds herself straight, the wind cooling her face until no blemish of red touches it.
A soft sound from within Ninvainiel's throat is her only reply, as she too nudges her mare forward and trails after her cousin. For all her preaching of patience, her grey-eyed gaze wanders ever westwards, hidden in the shadowed lee of her face.
Her bow is still drawn as they come up upon the falcon, and she cranes forward in her saddle, eyes straining to pierce the protection of its feathery wings and glimpse what prey is hidden therein.
Pulling up on the reins, Laeraelin peers at the bundle of fur and feather upon the grassy ground. She purses her lips into a shrill whistle and holds up her leather gauntled right arm.
The falcon looks up from its kill and utters a cry of recognition. With little hesitation, it launches itself from the ground and comes to light upon the slender but strong arm of the Telpekhor lady.
Looking upon the hare lying upon its side, Laeraelin sighs. We should have brought a man with us, I have no desire to dismount and retrieve the hare myself. But so saying, she carefully removes her leg from the horn and slides down to the ground gracefully.
With a small chuckle, Ninvainiel's bow is slung once again over her shoulder. "Why hunt, if you do not wish to take the kill?" she asks as Culurien takes a few steps forward and she leans over to grasp the grey mare's reins.
"I never did quite learn the waves of falconry," she remarks admiringly as she watches.
Pulling the hood over the falcon's head once more, Laeraelin laughs, "I care not for the hunt as much as I care for the ride upon the meadows. But I suppose I find the birds fine enough."
She gently transfers the falcon to perch upon the horn of her saddle and then walks over to the hare. Pulling a bit of cord from a pouch, she tightly wraps the hind legs of the hare together and holds it up for examination. "'Tis a bit scrawny, perhaps too puny for cook to bother with but I imagine Daesil will appreciate it. What do you think, Nin?"
"I think that you ought to bring it along, in any case," Ninvainiel replies with a laugh. "We might supplement it on the ride home - for the sun creeps higher in the sky, and the end of the hunting-hours grows nigh. And too, my stomach is quite growling with hunger - it's a wonder that all game on these fields haven't yet been scared off!"
First fastening the hare to her saddle, Laeraelin takes up the bird again and remounts. "Very well, cousin. We can come again if you wish to try your skill with the bow."
The young Telpekhor smiles at the elder and admits, "I too am hungry and am curious if any news of the south comes with the higher tides. I would know how our cousin fares...and his mentor."
A queer look is cast towards Laeraelin, quickly lost to a toss of sable tresses. "Yes, let us hear how our cousin has represented himself - honour and strength are in his noble blood, so let us hope that they have risen through the effeminate haze that it seems has enshrouded him," she says as she reaches behind to tap lightly upon her mare's flanks.
As she sets off, back again towards the pearly spires of Dol Amroth caught in full-streaming noon-light, she calls, "I'll race you back to the gates, are you ready? Go!"